


Melting Chris's Brain

by Janice_Lester



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M, Strip Tease, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:00:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris <i>really</i> likes the idea of people stuffing Zach's skimpy underwear with money.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Melting Chris's Brain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "prostitution/sex work" square of my [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[kink_bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) card. Features amateur striptease for cash. Beta'd by [](http://brytewolf.livejournal.com/profile)[brytewolf](http://brytewolf.livejournal.com/). Thanks to my friends-list for music suggestions!

 

“I bet you could,” Chris says, nodding rapidly. His blue eyes are bright even under the club’s shifting multi-coloured lights. One hand comes up to rub at his neck like he’s nervous, and his pink tongue-tip nips out to moisten his lips.

“You _like_ that idea,” Zach realises.

“Um, yeah. Kinda.” He closes his eyes, appears to be picturing the scene: Zachary Quinto, up on stage, dancing and slowly, so slowly, stripping off garments, until— “A hundred bucks says you’d be awesome at it and guys would be lining up to stuff bills down your sparkly string thong.” He still hasn’t opened his eyes. Zach can’t keep from reaching out, running his fingers through Chris’s soft hair. “Actually, you could keep the hundred bucks either way. That’d be hot…”

Well, Zach thinks, why not? He _is_ a trained dancer, after all. If not quite _that_ sort of dancer. He eyes the scantily-clad, muscular young man on the stage thoughtfully, assessing his moves. “Think I’ll go have a word with the manager,” he says, patting a suddenly wide-eyed Chris on his way out of the booth.

***

Zach insists on doing the thing properly. First he takes a few days to decide on a song, with copious competing input from Chris and Zoe (your own song? Really, Christopher?). Then he takes a few days to practice and get appropriate gear together (it _may_ be possible to shimmy gracefully out of skinny jeans on stage, but Zach doubts he has the time or patience to learn how—clearly he needs a pair with velcro seams or something). And he’ll need a mask. Or a big floppy-brimmed hat, maybe.

Only when he has all that stuff sorted out does he call Richard the club owner again and tell him he’d like to take up the offer. They’ve talked about it, and Zach’s confident Richard will keep his staff from spilling his identity to the press. Not much he can do about random club patrons who might happen to recognise him despite his minimal disguise, but, hey, if the worst happens it happens. It’s not like he’s ashamed of being gay and a damn fine dancer. Or of looking pretty fucking fine in a sparkly g-string.

So, Wednesday night finds him backstage, taking a few calming breaths while he waits for Peter the sound guy to cue up his song and someone with a microphone tries to get the crowd excited about the club’s first ever amateur night.

And then he’s on. “Bad Things” plays and Zach swaggers out, barefoot because it’s just fucking easier, and wearing a simple black half-mask, to a surprising degree of acclaim. The lights are bright in his eyes, and it’ll be a while before he can make out any of his audience clearly, but he’s aware of them, their shapes and their sounds and their rapt attention. He dances. Smiles. Snaps the collar of his denim jacket up around his ears. Spins. Starts slowly, so slowly, attacking the buttons one by one, hips rocking to the subtly raunchy beat. Slides across the stage to grab the pole and do a basic spin around it (oh, LA, how he loves you for your pole-dancing classes in gyms).

A cheer goes up when he slips the jacket down off his shoulders, pausing for a moment to let the masses admire his muscles as he pretends his arms are bound behind his back by the jacket. Then he winks as he sends it flying towards the back of the stage. His sleeveless shirt is a rather nice purple and silver lamé plaid, and he untucks it from his jeans but makes them wait through eight bars of dancing before he even begins work on the buttons.

They seem to like his chest, when he reveals it. Zoe had suggested he shave it, but… no. Fucking _no_. He spots Chris and Zoe right about the time he’s sliding his star-spangled belt free of his belt loops.

_I wanna do bad things with you…_

Just for the hell of it, he stares straight at Chris and mimes flogging him with the belt. Then he spins, gives his audience a really good view of his ass as he slides his jeans slowly down just a little, just a tease. Just enough to show the hint of red. Until the time is right to spin around, as the music swells, and rip off all that carefully velcro’d denim.

It all comes off as flawlessly as the last few times in rehearsal, and he breathes a private sigh of relief.

Zach doesn’t ordinarily wear g-strings except for very special, very private, very bedroom-based occasions. Dancing in only his brand new bright red g-string is actually more unnerving than showing everything in _Angels_ , because this is _him_ , this isn’t a character. Also, this time he’s hard. Not intentional, not something he took any pains to achieve or avoid, he just assumed, really, that the mood would not be conducive. Error, evidently. He grins as he heads to the pole to finish up the routine, nothing fancy, just posing, really, providing opportunities for people to stuff bills in his waistband.

Which they do.

In some numbers.

Even after the music stops and the applause starts up.

Zoe takes the opportunity to fondle his ass while she’s stuffing his underwear with cash. Chris doesn’t, he’s too busy blushing. And, yes, if Zach hadn’t already been on a high from the music, the dancing, the adrenaline, that would have done it.

***

“My favourite animal shelter is going to be so pleased you made your little bet, Christopher.”

On the bed, Chris sort of _twitches_.

“Problem?” Zach asks politely, stretching the red g-string like a slingshot and aiming it towards the laundry basket. It misses. Oh, well.

“I, uh… think you melted my brain. People _really_ fucking liked you, man.”

“You don’t need to sound so surprised.”

“I’m not. I mean, not at that. At… um, what it did to me. I think it’s really fucking hot that people would pay you to take your clothes off. Makes me kinda wonder…”

He clams up, and no amount of eyebrow raising from Zach elicits more words.

So Zach goes to the bed, clambers up over Chris. Looks down into those blue, blue eyes. “I bet there are people who’d pay me for sex, too,” he purrs. “Would you like that?”

Chris hisses in a breath, pink tongue coming out to wet his lips.

“You like the thought of being my client? Or being the only one who gets it for free?”

“God, yes,” Chris says, as if that’s a comprehensible answer, and pulls him down into a hot, frantic kiss.

 _All right, then,_ Zach observes. _Time for sexy talk is apparently over._

He can’t help getting the last word, though, when Chris next allows him the free use of his mouth. He touches his lips to the shell of Chris’s ear and says, in as rough and growly a voice as he can manage, “I wanna do _such_ bad things to you.”

Chris manages to get out of _his_ skinny jeans and other assorted garments almost as fast as if they were only velcro’d on.

***END***


End file.
